


Football

by WhenIFindLoveAgain



Category: Original Work
Genre: English Football, F/F, F/M, Football, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22272865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenIFindLoveAgain/pseuds/WhenIFindLoveAgain
Summary: A slightly disastrous piece on why boys playing football when fish and chips is concerned just does not work, a review of Peter Shilton's career, and why boys never tell their mates they're going to get themselves in trouble
Kudos: 1





	Football

_Good luck but you're goanna bugger it_ , a voice in the back of my head said.

  
 _Great_ , I thought in response.

  
This was the day after my Nanna and I nearly had a dinner ruined by a football if I hadn't pulled a save that Peter Shilton couldn't have done better.

\---------------------------

Friday evening. Eating fish and chips with my Grandmother in the botancial gardens, and amongst the four storey high Sequoias and European Pines is a large open space of pure flat grass that has not a single weed or thorn-growth on it. It's a grass four acres big and it's a luxury comparable to the lawn's at Oxford university in England. Australia rarely has something so beautiful unless it's created by English, Welsh or Scottish hands. On the lawn a few boys were playing English football. Nothing wrong with that at all. Until one of the prats - one of them - kicked it and all I saw was a black and white checked object racing at us. I'm quite proud of myself would that save, because I caught the little bastard before it hit the table and my Grandmother ducked her head. There was five of them, all in a array of sneakers, socks, shorts and t-shirts. I walked over to them and gave it to the nearest one; he was - to tell you the honest truth - gorgeous with full lips, a seventies style sort of fringe that tangled amongst his eyes. He had a sharp adam's apple in his throat with bright green, asure-shade eyes and oatmeal-coloured hair and eyelashes, with a square jaw and cheekbones and a little bit of a dent in his chin.

  
Hubba hubba, baby.

  
"Peter Shilton couldnae done a better job." I said. I speak with a Welsh-Australian accent, and the Australian accent is a monstrosity of a thing; it sounds like the Manchester accent. It's a crude mix of Irish and Scot Gaelic with inner-city London drawl, West-Country snap and Welsh croon. You pair that with a North Welsh accent, and fucking hell. If you couldn't see my face and my breasts in that tight top I was wearing, you'd think I was a man. Ochre darkness mixes down with a sensual sort of bitterness. That's how I describe my voice. It's the best description for it. It blows most people away; they don't think it would come out of me. It's like my throat was slowed and reverbed or something.

  
A few of his mates laughed, but he went, "Who?"

  
Fuck for fuck's sake...

  
"He was a English football goal-keeper; the best with Gary Lineker." I replied with a smile before turning off. Honestly, I'll tell you a truth about men. When boys clearly see their mates are going to say or do something stupid/dangerous/bizarre/ or just downright stupid, they don't say a word. They just grin and be very supportful, until someone's had their testicles shoved down their throat, they're in the A&E, or they've just lost their trousers.

  
"You like - you know about football then?" One of his mates said. I turned around and hummed, but knowing they wouldn't hear it I gave another smile.

  
"Yeah." I said.

\---------------------------

I was listening to Adele's "Water Under The Bridge" in the gardens and I saw them again. All five of them, the oatmeal-haired boy included. The azure-eyed boy. Whatever you want me to think of him as. Maybe I should give him a name - Luke, Dan, Harry, Mitch, Arthur, Credence - no, no way, that's enough of that.

  
Tom.

  
"Don't pretend that you don't want me

  
Our love ain't water under the bridge." Played through my earphones as I watched them get on to having another game of English football. A second later I was changing the song to a slowed-down edition of Bebe Rexha.

  
"You bring me back to life and it's all in the name of love..."


End file.
